Oh God. The pain.
Cutting you to your bones with it's knife of death. Eating away at your soul, destroying your will to live. Your want to survive. Your desire to keep persevering. It's beckoning you, calling your name. Over and over. Willing you to it's door. Willing to shove the key into your own hands to unlock whatever reprieve is waiting behind it.
But you can't. you won't… will you? It's not right. It can't be justified. How can it be justified to die at the hands of another on your own living room floor, laying in your own blood and the shards of a broken mug and spilt tea that was meant to calm your nerves and prepare you to be able to concentrate on the work that was in front of you. Which happens to be moot now because you know who did it; you know who murdered Major Benson's wife, Hannah. You know the face behind the cruelty and malice. You know the hand that gave life to the fingers that pulled the trigger. The finger that pulled the trigger seven times, as a matter of fact, and reduced poor Hannah to nothing but a bloody beaten corpse. You know, because it was the same face and the same hand that killed you. Or tried. Tried to kill you. Because you are not dead yet. And it's then you realize, you must fight. You are still alive and because of that you must fight and bring justice.
So you gather what little strength left in you and turn your head. The phone is only a couple of feet away on top of the table. Call him, call him… help me, help me… You know you don't have enough time left to have a conversation with the police you don't have the strength to answer all their necessary but futile questions because you know you will run out of time. So you reach with your arms and drag your body. It's a grueling process but becomes your mantra. reach, drag, reach, drag… Because these words give you power, they tell you, you are making progress. They give you hope to live.
You reach the phone and pull it off the edge of the table. It clatters to the ground in front of you. Call him… help me. You dial the number you know by heart because you know you won't have to answer his questions. He will already know because he knows you. He knows your every mood, your every decision he will know when you are in trouble, just as you would him. You two are connected like that.
You hear the first ring, then the second, then wait the one-hundred minutes till the third, and Oh God. What if he's not there. But he has to be because he has to know. You can feel your life slipping away, faster and faster. Three slams of a bullet will do that to you. Please answer. Please help me…please. And just when you feel you are going to give in to the nothingness, you hear a click. Then a shuffle and a breathless, "Rabb," on the other end. He must have just gotten home, just ran in the door. Maybe he ran to the grocery store after work because he had a missing ingredient for his Eggplant Parmesan. Or maybe he had just gotten back from an evening run. It was a nice night after all…
He interrupts your thoughts with his words…Concentrate, you need to concentrate.
"Hello…hello…who is this?"
Surely he must have heard your labored breathing just as you heard that labored voice in your head: help me… "Hello, Mac, is that you?" He's worried. You can tell. So you muster every single fiber of strength you have and tell yourself to say it. Make yourself say it. You have to say it or you die, taunts that little voice.
" 'arm…help…please 'elp." It comes out a throaty gurgle because you can feel the blood rising in your throat, threatening to choke you, your body ready to kill you by strangulation rather than asphyxiation. But your OK now because you said it. And on the last vestige of consciousness you can hear him calling you, screaming your name. But you allow yourself to fall into the welcoming darkness because it is there where the pain is no more.
End Part 1.…
Cutting you to your bones with it's knife of death. Eating away at your soul, destroying your will to live. Your want to survive. Your desire to keep persevering. It's beckoning you, calling your name. Over and over. Willing you to it's door. Willing to shove the key into your own hands to unlock whatever reprieve is waiting behind it.
But you can't. you won't… will you? It's not right. It can't be justified. How can it be justified to die at the hands of another on your own living room floor, laying in your own blood and the shards of a broken mug and spilt tea that was meant to calm your nerves and prepare you to be able to concentrate on the work that was in front of you. Which happens to be moot now because you know who did it; you know who murdered Major Benson's wife, Hannah. You know the face behind the cruelty and malice. You know the hand that gave life to the fingers that pulled the trigger. The finger that pulled the trigger seven times, as a matter of fact, and reduced poor Hannah to nothing but a bloody beaten corpse. You know, because it was the same face and the same hand that killed you. Or tried. Tried to kill you. Because you are not dead yet. And it's then you realize, you must fight. You are still alive and because of that you must fight and bring justice.
So you gather what little strength left in you and turn your head. The phone is only a couple of feet away on top of the table. Call him, call him… help me, help me… You know you don't have enough time left to have a conversation with the police you don't have the strength to answer all their necessary but futile questions because you know you will run out of time. So you reach with your arms and drag your body. It's a grueling process but becomes your mantra. reach, drag, reach, drag… Because these words give you power, they tell you, you are making progress. They give you hope to live.
You reach the phone and pull it off the edge of the table. It clatters to the ground in front of you. Call him… help me. You dial the number you know by heart because you know you won't have to answer his questions. He will already know because he knows you. He knows your every mood, your every decision he will know when you are in trouble, just as you would him. You two are connected like that.
You hear the first ring, then the second, then wait the one-hundred minutes till the third, and Oh God. What if he's not there. But he has to be because he has to know. You can feel your life slipping away, faster and faster. Three slams of a bullet will do that to you. Please answer. Please help me…please. And just when you feel you are going to give in to the nothingness, you hear a click. Then a shuffle and a breathless, "Rabb," on the other end. He must have just gotten home, just ran in the door. Maybe he ran to the grocery store after work because he had a missing ingredient for his Eggplant Parmesan. Or maybe he had just gotten back from an evening run. It was a nice night after all…
He interrupts your thoughts with his words…Concentrate, you need to concentrate.
"Hello…hello…who is this?"
Surely he must have heard your labored breathing just as you heard that labored voice in your head: help me… "Hello, Mac, is that you?" He's worried. You can tell. So you muster every single fiber of strength you have and tell yourself to say it. Make yourself say it. You have to say it or you die, taunts that little voice.
" 'arm…help…please 'elp." It comes out a throaty gurgle because you can feel the blood rising in your throat, threatening to choke you, your body ready to kill you by strangulation rather than asphyxiation. But your OK now because you said it. And on the last vestige of consciousness you can hear him calling you, screaming your name. But you allow yourself to fall into the welcoming darkness because it is there where the pain is no more.
End Part 1.…